


Flowerboy

by redtoblack



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Eliot works at a coffeeshop and Quentin works at a flowershop, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Quentin has white hair for white hair reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:41:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28563705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoblack/pseuds/redtoblack
Summary: “Hey stranger,” Eliot says to the dimples, the snow white sweep of hair, the cold-pinked cheeks, the wooly scarf tucked into the button-up coat, the way he bounces a little on the balls of his feet like he’s been trying to keep warm as he waited. “You’re early today, you should’ve knocked and come in from the cold.”“You were in the zone, I didn’t wanna interrupt."But an interruption from Quentin would always be welcome in Eliot's book, and he's got a plan to show him just how much.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 18
Kudos: 51
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	Flowerboy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fearlesstogether](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearlesstogether/gifts).



> Some soft boys for you! I know coffeeshop and flowershop AUs are probably typically separate, but I saw "coffeeshop/flowershop" and these boys just sprang to my mind fully formed, cheerfully demanding many words be written about them.
> 
> Thank you stormcoming for the beta!

_Rest your weary head, and let your heart decide,_ Freddie tells Eliot through one earbud. He smiles as he pulls chairs from their upside-down perch on the tables, the last task he has to take care of as they get ready to open The Cottage for the day. Margo’s calling orders in the back, and he lets the abrasive sound fly over him, knowing he’s not about to miss anything important. And besides, he’s got more important (or at least more exciting) things to be thinking about, and think about them he does, as Freddie recommends he _light another cigarette, and let yourself go._

If only he could, but the clear no smoking sign warns Eliot not to try until he’s heading on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop later on break. He’ll be heading down to Mosaic Flowers to work his daily charm on a very special employee — one who’ll be along in just a few minutes, Eliot knows, before his shift starts at the flower shop.

“Alright El, let’s light ‘er up,” Margo calls smartly, stepping up to the counter and tying on her crisp scarlet apron. Shaking his head at the way it makes her brown complexion glow while Eliot’s skin just goes blotchy, he heads over to flip the sign on the door to _OPEN._

It’s a bright, fresh fall morning, and Eliot hums into the crisp air as he props the door open, following the tune of _It’s a free world, all you have to do is fall in love_ — to grin and pull the earbud out at the sight of a familiar face.

“Hey stranger,” he says to the dimples, the snow white sweep of hair, the cold-pinked cheeks, the wooly scarf tucked into the button-up coat, the way he bounces a little on the balls of his feet like he’s been trying to keep warm as he waited. “You’re early today, you should’ve knocked and come in from the cold.”

“You were in the zone, I didn’t wanna interrupt,” Quentin says graciously, following Eliot back through the door to the booth right under the heat vent.

“The usual?” Eliot asks, just barely remembering to pause the music on his phone as he steps behind the countertop.

“Please,” Quentin confirms with a nod, shedding his coat and scarf, blowing on his palms and rubbing them together with a little hiss.

Eliot lets him warm up for a few minutes as he gets his daily order ready, sweeping by to hand off the mug of black coffee with an espresso shot as soon as it’s ready. “Here’s your coffee for warming up your hands, since it’s clearly unfit for drinking,” he teases, then cycles back around to grab a warmed ham and cheese croissant.

Snorting after him, Quentin wraps his palms around the mug, leaning against the table rather than sitting down. “If you think _this_ is unfit for drinking, you really don’t wanna be around when Julia drags me into a juice cleanse.”

He scrunches up his face, because no, he really _doesn’t_ want to hear about a juice cleanse. He _would_ want to be around for it, though, to hear about it if it’s what Quentin wanted to talk about. But he doesn’t say that. These things have their own timetable.

“I dunno, Q, I’ve always looked at root vegetables and thought _hm, yes, I’d like to drink that,_ ” he says instead, tone dry, and takes a seat when he sets down the plate. Quentin looks happy to stop standing, taking the seat across from him so they face each other while he tears chunks off of his croissant.

They pass easy chatter back and forth for a little while until customers start arriving, Eliot apologetically slipping out of the booth to host the register. Quentin lingers awkwardly by the door when he leaves, waiting for Eliot to be able to make eye contact so he can give an adorable little wave before ducking out the door.

The rest of Eliot’s shift passes slowly as he waits for his break. It’s not that he doesn’t like his job; he does, and he finds ways to enjoy even a slow shift. He plays people-watching games with Penny when there are no customers in hearing range, not-so-subtly watching conversations on the street outside and filling in what they’re talking about. He nurses a shot glass of his favorite flavoring syrup and warm milk, exactly the kind of drink Quentin would say tastes like rainbow cardboard.

But mostly he just wants to get to break time, because he’s decided to take a shot today. See where it leads, if anywhere. But he has something he’s looking forward to and a happy, restless itch in his palms until he gets there.

A sudden rush keeps him busy, and he ends up staying later than intended without noticing. It’s when Margo comes out to relieve him while he’s in the middle of making a hot chocolate that he realizes what time it is, or rather, that Margo tells him and demands to know what he’s still doing on shift when he could be relaxing outside. With a hug of thanks that she doesn’t return — but she does roll her eyes, and that’s about the same with her — Eliot heads into the back to strip off his apron in favor of his long coat.

Stepping out onto the street, he aims himself towards the flower shop and hits play as he’s still putting his earbuds in. It’s the perfect length walk to usually get him through one song, and he grins at the hand shuffle deals him as he pulls his cigarettes from his coat pocket.

He’s hoping to repay Quentin’s loitering from this morning, but peering in through the glass doesn’t reveal his friend, and the way his breath fogs up the surface doesn’t help either. As the last _Crazy little thing called love, yeah, yeah_ fades and his hovering thumb presses the pause button, he pulls open the door and tugs out his earbuds at the same time, fumbling a little so that he ends up propping the door with his shoulder on his way in.

“Good morning, Julia,” he calls pleasantly to the woman leaning on her forearms on the counter, watching him like she’s trying not to laugh. “Is Q in?”

“Just missed him,” Julia says apologetically in that smoky voice of hers.

“Oh.” Slowing to a stop in the middle of the shop, Eliot looks around a little, suddenly wrong-footed. Quentin definitely said he’d be on shift through lunch time today. Should Eliot...leave? It’d be awkward, but probably better than lingering first and leaving later without buying anything.

Julia laughs, and he turns back to the counter. “Oh my god, I’m joking, no need to look so disappointed,” she says, not sounding sorry _at all_ for almost derailing Eliot’s hopes for the day, and jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s in the back, go on in.”

“Thank you,” Eliot says, affronted, gives himself a subtle shake as he passes through the bead curtain to the storage room.

Quentin’s got his hair up in a tiny bun, looking like a fluffy white bunny tail where he faces away from Eliot, concentrating on a bouquet of something pink and yellow.

“I still can’t tell whether Julia loves me or hates me,” Eliot says to announce himself from the doorway. Quentin startles, but his face is lit up when he turns around.

“She’s like that,” he assures Eliot, like he always does. “If we hadn’t been friends forever, I’d be right where you are.” A piece of hair falls in front of his face, and he tucks it away. “Can I get you something?” he asks, like he always does.

“Actually, I was kinda hoping you could,” Eliot answers tentatively. He’s never said yes before, except for the very first time when he stopped in on a whim after Margo helped him land the coffee shop job down the street. A nervous feeling stirs in his stomach, and he tries to inwardly shush it. There’s no reason to be nervous. It won’t really pay off until tomorrow, anyway.

Quentin’s face does — something. Eliot’s not actually sure what it does, because it’s over before he can really start to wonder, already back to his soft smile and bright eyes. “Of course, that’s what I’m here for,” he says, and he does _sound_ excited about it. Maybe Eliot imagined the face thing. “What are you looking for?”

Although he does try to keep the smile from his lips, Eliot can’t quite manage it as he explains, “There’s a...a guy. That I met. A friend of mine. I don’t know if he’ll be more, but I thought I should get him a little something. Just to say I like him, and I think he’s special, and...hope that _he_ likes _that,_ ” he finishes with a little shrug.

Okay. That was okay. Not coming on so strong as to make Quentin upset, if — things are the way Eliot thinks they are, but also saying enough that Q can think about it during phase two of the plan and get his meaning.

If Quentin is disappointed, he doesn’t show it at all, just nodding thoughtfully and flipping through a binder he pulled from a drawer. Eliot has to resist biting his lip from nervous excitement, and tells himself to calm down more sternly this time. It won’t do to act weird now.

“This would be a good section to look through for ideas,” Quentin tells him, almost handing over the open binder before taking it back again. “Oh — unless you already know his favorite color? Or favorite flower or scent would also work.”

Anyone who talks to Quentin about his job for five minutes will very quickly learn his favorite flower, color, scent, arrangement technique, and vase style. Which means, unfortunately, Eliot can’t use that combination. But he’s thought about this.

“Yeah, I know a little bit. I know he likes roses, and I was thinking orange — the ones you like, that you told me about?”

Quentin’s smile widens approvingly. “Orange roses. Friendship as well as love, gratitude as well as passion. It’s a good choice for this.”

Shrugging a little, Eliot fights to stand still, like this isn’t driving him up the wall that he has to wait until tomorrow to see what will happen. Luckily Quentin’s no longer paying him much attention, going around a corner of the shelving to, presumably, pull the flowers for him.

“I assume you don’t want a full bouquet?” he calls, peering at Eliot through a tiny gap between two shelves.

“No, I think, like, three? Does that sound right?”

“Yeah, three is good.” When he tips his head back up to reach higher, Eliot can just make out what looks like a small smile through the gap.

He lets Quentin wrap them up in a special wet paper and plastic configuration that he says will make them last longer — it really is silly how much time Eliot has spent back here without learning a thing about how to sell flowers — and they walk out together so Eliot can pay at the counter.

He writes off the weird glance between Q and Julia as a long-term-best-friend-who-maybe-hates-Eliot thing, but then Julia stops him with a hand on his opening wallet.

“They’re on the house,” she says firmly. Eliot blinks at her. Looks at Quentin, who’s got his dimples out, apparently enjoying Eliot’s reaction.

“Whoever he is, he’s got good taste,” Quentin says, and that’s — “in flowers, I mean, so we’ve gotta give you some kind of help so maybe you can keep him,” and yeah, that makes more sense. Feeling himself smile a little too adoringly for the current situation, Eliot makes himself chuckle and shake his head so he can look away for a second and gather his composure.

“Thanks for that,” he deadpans, but puts away his wallet and looks back at both of them, fingering one of the rose petals. “And for this.”

Quentin nods at him, then backs towards the hallway again, signalling he should get back to work. Which Eliot should also do. “Anytime. I hope...well, good luck,” he says, then waves his little wave again and disappears with a, “See you in the morning!”

“Bye,” Eliot calls after him, and waves at Julia as she makes a shooing motion on his way out the door.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, but when Eliot looks back through the glass to wave again, she’s disappearing through the bead curtain after Quentin.

\--

Sure, Quentin had a very brief, very petty thought about not going to The Cottage before work today. But it’s not like he’d meant to actually _do it,_ it’s just, he was tired so he stayed in bed a little longer than he should have, and then his hair was being sucky so he had to wet it down to fix it — which made it worse so he wet it down _again_ and fixed it a second time — and then he couldn’t find his favorite scarf and called Julia in case he left it at work and she had to tell him to check the foot of his bed, which was ridiculous but there it was, and then he tripped trying to put on his shoes on the way out the door and it was all — he had just had a morning, is all.

But he really doesn’t want to be late. He’d been trying so hard yesterday, not showing that it hurt to be picking out flowers for someone Eliot feels _I like him_ and _he’s special_ about, setting down his own feelings to just be happy that he’s found something good. Quentin knows it’s been a while, so really, it’s — it’s a really good thing. And he _is_ happy for Eliot. The way he fought down a smile the entire conversation, the way he fidgeted and thought so carefully about what he was getting. It was sweet. And something about it felt right, to see Eliot like that. Even if it made Quentin want to tear the pages out of his catalogue binder at first, that the feelings weren’t directed at him.

Even then, happiness suits him. Love suits him.

And Quentin doesn’t want Eliot to think otherwise. Doesn’t want Eliot to get the impression that _Quentin_ thinks otherwise, which he’s pretty sure not showing up for coffee the next morning for the first time in months would definitely provide.

So he finds himself running down the street, arriving overheated and breathless in his thick coat and scarf, wisps of hair striping white in front of him where he jostled his ponytail too much.

He — may have miscalculated how fast he was going. He’s gotten there early again, the door standing closed, and for now, the front room is empty. Taking the opportunity to be a bit more presentable, Quentin stands back from the door, stripping out of his coat and piling his scarf on top of it on the sidewalk, taking big, puffing breaths that wake up his lungs as he tries to smooth his hair without messing up the part he finally managed at home.

The door opens at his side, Eliot looking quizzically from his pile of warm things to that face Quentin knows he makes when he’s tugging at the elastic in his hair.

“Do you wanna come in?” he asks, amused, instead of the other questions he could’ve asked — which Quentin is glad about, because he doesn’t have a great answer, after all.

“Yes, thank you,” he says, haphazardly carrying his clothes in with him while Eliot holds the door open. Still heading for his favorite booth under the heater, he leaves the armful of warmth on the seat and moves to sit at the bar instead.

Eliot flashes him a surprised look. “You look like you’ve had an interesting morning,” he observes. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, but — on a whim, he just, has this feeling — “actually, El,” he turns around from the coffee press, and in the morning light Quentin can’t help but notice how the red apron catches the warmth of his hazel eyes, “surprise me,” he finishes with a shrug.

It seems like Eliot could have been waiting years for Quentin to say that, with the sheer delight in his sudden grin. He practically vaults from leaning against the counter. “Oh,” he says, “I’ve got just the thing.” On the way to the back room, he turns so he’s walking backwards while still watching Quentin. “Could you sit at the table, actually?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Quentin says, wondering what he just signed up for, but he goes and slides into the booth with his clothes. The heater isn’t so bad now, anyway, since he’s had a minute to cool down from the run. It’s a couple minutes until Eliot returns from the back, and Quentin sits at the edge of the booth seat with his ankles crossed so he can face him and watch as he gets the coffee ready.

“So how did the flowers go over?” he asks, ignoring the slight prickle in his chest because he _does_ want to know, he _does_ hope it went well.

“We’ll have to see,” Eliot responds over his shoulder, fussing with the coffee machine. “I’m giving them to him today. Pretty soon now, actually,” and he’s turned around again, like they usually do, facing each other as much as possible so they can talk, and it means Quentin can see that shy smile again, and despite himself he smiles too.

“I’m sure it’ll go well.”

“If you say so, then I guess it will,” Eliot replies with a thoughtful look, going back to Quentin’s breakfast.

He gives a little laugh. “I don’t know if I’m _that_ much of an expert, to be honest. Only in the flower part.”

Swinging around the counter with a tray, Eliot still looks happy, but nervous now, more nervous with each step. Quentin’s just about to say something to be reassuring when he swallows, and it looks like the nerves vanish completely. It’s always impressive the way he does that, just decides something’s going to work out and stops worrying. Quentin’s glad he can do it with this too; it’s sweet but hard to see him so nervous over something.

“Something tells me you’re more of an expert on this than you think,” Eliot says mildly as he stops in front of Quentin’s table, setting down a plate with a cheddar scone and some flower petals, then whisking off behind the counter again.

 _I dunno, I haven’t really dated that much,_ Quentin’s all set to say, reaching for his plate, when it registers what’s on it, and the words fizz out in his mind.

The scone, yeah, which he’d gotten on his birthday because it’s his favorite but is also like stupid expensive so he doesn’t get it outside of special occasions, which of course Eliot knows because he was there on Quentin’s birthday.

But also. Orange rose petals. Artfully scattered on his plate, pretty as you please, just sitting there.

He —

He lifts his gaze to the counter, where Eliot is doing something with his coffee mug, and meets his eye briefly with a quiet smile before looking back to his work.

A moment later, while Quentin’s still hovering over the plate, tracking Eliot across the room, he’s sliding into the booth across from him and pushing over a mug of black coffee with a single petal floating on top.

“You —”

“Yep.”

“The roses —”

“Yep.”

“You, um,” and before he can say anything else, an uncontrollable smile is spreading across his face as it fully sinks in. “You bought them for me.”

Eliot’s fidgeting again. Shoulders uncharacteristically narrowed, biting his lip, and raising his eyebrows like _so what do you think?_ when Quentin looks up at him. Oh but he looks so _nervous_ — and so _hopeful,_ and now that Quentin — that Quentin _knows,_ more pieces are coming to mind —

 _“There’s a...a guy. That I met. A friend of mine. I don’t know if he’ll be more, but I thought I should get him a little something. Just to say I like him, and I think he’s special, and...hope that_ he _likes_ that. _”_

And suddenly, he laughs. “So I’m more of an expert than I thought, huh?”

Eliot grins with him, the tension wilting away. “Well, you _are._ ”

“And you were gonna give them to him _pretty soon now,_ right?”

“I — yeah. The jokes helped. I was going _crazy_ keeping this a secret yesterday.”

“And it’s my favorite flower!” Quentin realizes, a little indignantly as Eliot cackles. He covers his eyes with his hands. “Oh my god, I feel dumb,” he grumbles.

“I was trying _very hard_ to keep it a surprise,” Eliot says comfortingly. Through a gap in his fingers, Quentin can see him look around the room briefly, wetting his lips and shifting in his seat. He lowers his hands to his lap so they’re facing each other properly again. “So you do like them?”

“God, El, yeah. I — I like them a lot. Thank you.”

Eliot nods, looking away suddenly, like that could do anything to hide his pleased expression. “Good. I’m glad.”

“Do you, um,” Quentin casts about for the right thing to offer, landing on the table in front of him, “do you wanna split the scone with me?”

He seems to be making a habit of finding good things only once they’re right under his nose. But that’s okay. He can look a little harder, if it’ll keep turning out like this.


End file.
